You are meant to stride through sunlit streets,
glimmering with the confidence of gods,
and then, in the moon's pull,
be hollowed out by questions older than the stars.

You are meant to live years that pour like water,
slipping unnoticed through your fingers,
while a single afternoon clutches you tight,
unwilling to release its grip.

There are supposed to be voices that cut through your certainty,
teeth in their syllables,
while others hold you like a whisper,
soft enough to heal the fractures.

You are meant to fail, to fall, to splinter.
Not broken,
but scattered like seeds,
aching to bloom in the chaos of the dirt.

The horizon is not always a promise,
sometimes it's a reminder
that wandering is necessary,
and that the map was never yours to hold.

You were never meant to have all the answers.
You are allowed to be incomplete,
to be a question mark in a world obsessed with exclamation points.

Nothing is wrong with you.
You are just becoming more - 'YOU'.